by James Runcie
Sidney wondered if she was right, and if he might feel less anxious (and less distracted by crime) if he had more status; if, eventually, perhaps, he was a bishop.
‘A clergyman cannot be proud,’ he answered.
‘Of course not. But he must have the confidence to do his job well. Like a doctor.’
‘That is not to say that there aren’t ambitious priests, of course.’
‘How ambitious are you, Sidney?’
‘I think I aspire to a clear conscience.’
‘That sounds almost too good to be true.’
‘It is the truth as I see it; an honest answer, I hope. Perhaps because I gave it to you quickly, it is what I most mean.’
Hildegard took his arm. It was another cold night and they walked on through the Tiergarten, past street stalls selling bockwurst, toasted almonds, chestnuts and glühwein.
‘I like being with you,’ Hildegard said. ‘You can be so serious and then sometimes I think you are in a world of your own. I wish I could go there.’
‘Well,’ Sidney replied. ‘I can always take you. But what about you? What will you do?’
‘The future seems so far away,’ Hildegard answered. ‘For now, the present moment, here, now and with you, is enough.’
Back in Grantchester, Sidney knew that he had to be careful not to romanticise the memory of what had happened. He reminded himself that Berlin had also been unsettling. He was forever showing his papers. Armed guards at sector checkpoints were continually asking him to prove that he was who he said he was.
Recalling it all now, as he walked Dickens home across the snow-filled meadows, Sidney began to think about loyalty and how hard it was to lead two very different lives at the same time, one in England and the other in Germany. But then, he continued, the idea of duality was also at the heart of Christianity. You had to be both a man and a Christian, and if there was ever a conflict between the two then it was his duty as a priest to put his acquired identity, as a man of faith, above his own essential nature.
Sidney was not sure how successful he had been at doing this. There were times when it would have been far easier to act on his own instincts, and in accordance with his innate personality, but the idea, surely, was that these had to be sacrificed in order to fulfil a more important calling.
He wondered if people working in the field of espionage thought in the same way, perverting the religious impulse, perhaps, putting their conscience above their country, believing in a higher purpose or a different destiny for which they were prepared to betray everything they pretended to hold dear.
Valentine Lyall’s funeral took place ten days after his death. Although Sidney had not known him well he was able to talk to a sufficient number of his colleagues to draw up an informal portrait of the man. A keen mountaineer, Lyall had been born in Windermere in 1903, and had been too young to fight in the First World War. Since then, however, his work in radiology at Strangeways Research Laboratory in Worts Causeway had brought him international recognition. His research into the deleterious effects of radioactive isotopes, and the biological impact of atomic explosions, had been of inestimable benefit to the Ministry of Defence; but Lyall had also been determined to uncover the benefits of that same technology in peacetime, putting the similarities between war armament and protection to good use. Consequently, he had written extensively on the application of radiation action in biological and medical investigations.
This gave Sidney the substance for his funeral address; that good could yet come from evil, that darkness could be turned into light.
He was tempted to take his text from the Book of Isaiah. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war any more. However, Sidney knew that his academic, and therefore judgemental, congregation would find this too obvious and so, in recognition of Valentine Lyall’s love of mountains, he settled for something braver, especially given the context of the man’s death. He chose to speak on the subject of Matthew, chapter 17, verse 20: If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place: and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.
It was worth the risk. Every time Sidney spoke to the more doubtful, humanist or cynical members of the university he found himself becoming more aggressive about his faith.
Not that he knew everyone who had come to the service. Despite the aspersions cast about his private life, Lyall had once had a wife; and although she had left him shortly after the war and lived in London, she returned for her former husband’s funeral and sat with his sister in the front row. The two women were joined by the Master of Corpus, several senior fellows, and staff from the Strangeways Research Laboratory.
Sidney’s sermon went well. He had learned that the best way of unsettling the non-believer was to attack with certainty, acknowledging doubt before hitting home with the necessity of faith.
The wake was held in Cherry Hinton Road. Lyall’s sister, Hetty, offered guests some rather tired-looking cheese sandwiches, followed by tea and cake, whisky or sherry, while Sidney took the opportunity to have a quiet word with a woman he had never met before.
Alice Lyall, now Bannerman, was a surprisingly tall, elegant woman with magnificent Titianesque hair that had been swept back and curled. Although she could clearly dominate a room she took pains not to, either embarrassed or tired by the effect she could have on a man. She was going to stay for as long as it was polite to do so, and Sidney knew that he would have to choose his words carefully if he was going to acquire information.
‘When we first moved in, I thought that we would live here for ever,’ she explained. ‘I imagined the children going to the Leys or the Perse and that I would become a don’s wife, one of those grass widows you see on their bicycles all over town trying to look as if they belong in a world of men. Now, of course, it turns out that I am merely a widow; of sorts.’
‘You didn’t have children?’
‘Not with Val, no, although that is hardly a surprise. I have had two boys since.’
‘Your husband didn’t mind you coming today?’
‘I didn’t particularly want to come. But when you’ve been married to a man you have to find a way of coming to terms with what has happened. You have to forgive him in the end.’
‘Did Mr Lyall require much forgiveness?’
‘I don’t think this is the time or the place to discuss the failure of my first marriage, do you, Canon Chambers?’
‘I am sorry. Please “forgive” my indiscretion.’
Alice Bannerman took no notice. ‘It’s not easy to be married to a liar. I am glad you did not mention it in your address.’
‘That would not have been appropriate. I presume you are referring . . .’
‘There’s no need to spell it out. Everyone knows he preferred men.’
‘Everyone suspects. That is different.’
‘God forbid anyone at the university ever telling it like it is.’
Sidney did not like to press matters. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you.’
‘You are not troubling me. In fact, I am grateful. I am also sorry to have been short with you. It’s not been an easy day and I do hate Cambridge. Thank you for taking the service.’
Sidney was surprised that so many women tended to think in this way. ‘Do you think your former husband did too?’
‘Hate Cambridge? I am sure he loved it.’
‘Many people find it difficult: the lack of privacy, the two different worlds of town and gown.’
‘Oh surely, Canon Chambers, there is a hierarchy of etiquette and a constellation of social codes.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Sidney tried to be conciliatory. ‘No one quite knows what the rules are.’
‘There are worlds within worlds when you think about it. Although I never expected to understand my husband on the subatomic level, I must say.’
‘You are a
scientist?’
‘I started off as Val’s research student.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘When you look as I do, Canon Chambers, very few people credit you with intelligence. Even at this esteemed university, people tend to go by appearances.’
‘As a priest, I try not to.’
‘Well, even as a priest, I think you probably have rather a long way to go, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Sidney was shocked by this directness. He suddenly felt rather sick. In fact, he worried that he was going to be sick. Perhaps it had been one of the cheese sandwiches. ‘If you’ll excuse me . . .’
Alice Bannerman appeared to guess his intentions. ‘The bathroom is at the top of the stairs on the right.’
The walls on the way up were tacked with Ordnance Survey maps and black and white photographs of mountains. Once in the bathroom, Sidney washed his face to quell his nausea. The small hand-towel was damp on a ring beside him. He looked to see if there was another and then noticed a small bathroom cabinet. He wondered if Lyall had kept any Alka-Seltzer or cod-liver oil to settle his stomach. When he opened the cupboard he found that it was half-filled with prescription medicines: mechlorethamine, triethylenemelamine and busulfan. He would have to telephone his father to check what they meant but he was almost sure that they were medicines for cancer.
He opened the window to get some air and then drank a glass of water. He took a few deep breaths and decided to go home as soon as possible.
‘So soon?’ Alice Bannerman asked.
Sidney could not leave quickly enough. It was early afternoon, but already it was almost dark, the only light coming from the street lamps and the snow. When he got back to the vicarage, he decided, he would make himself a cup of tea and sit by a warm fire in the half-light and pray quietly. Then he would talk to Leonard.
How does a man behave when he knows that his death is imminent?
Sidney had seen evidence of changes in behaviour in wartime; the courage and recklessness of men who knew that they could die at any moment. But was it the same in peacetime and when the risks were less? Did it matter what the stakes were, or was the context immaterial? And does a man, who knows that death is certain, give less, or perhaps even more, consideration to the moral consequences of his actions? Does the murderer fear the death penalty?
‘Not very often. I would have thought,’ Leonard replied as he contemplated the issues that Sidney raised. He was eating a crumpet. ‘I suspect that the act of murder must be an overwhelming desire. It countermands every alternative. Dostoevsky asks this question in Crime and Punishment. For the central character, Raskolnikov, murder is an experiment in morality. It gets to the heart of this very question.’
‘I imagine it does.’
Sidney sometimes thought that Leonard had entered a secret competition which involved bringing Dostoevsky into every conversation. ‘There is a recklessness about him, I seem to remember?’
‘A determination to have a life of meaning; to do one last thing; to make amends, or a sacrifice; a last chance at either nobility or revenge. But I can’t see Valentine Lyall as our Raskolnikov.’
‘Particularly since he is not a murderer but a victim.’
‘But if he wanted to die, or knew that he was dying, how would that change his behaviour on the roof?’ Leonard asked. ‘He might have taken more risks.’
‘Thereby increasing the chances of an accident; or faking one.’
‘But, if that is the case, then why has Bartlett disappeared?’
‘Panic?’
‘Possibly. But to have done so at such speed and with such cunning suggests something else.’
‘But why murder a man who was going to die anyway?’
‘Perhaps because you are afraid of his recklessness; because you understand that a man who knows he is about to die is capable of anything.’
Inspector Keating was, he told Sidney, ‘in no mood for mucking about’, as they sat together in the RAF bar at the back of the Eagle for one of their regular Thursday-night backgammon sessions. Keating was already complaining. His feet were cold, his gloves thin and it took an age to move around the town. Too many of his colleagues were on sick leave and his home was filled with three children who kept passing their colds between each other so that there was never a moment when everyone was healthy. His wife was exhausted and he himself was not much better.
After he had progressed through the litany of his lot in life and downed his first pint of the evening, Keating turned his complaint to the limitations of a Cambridge education and the irritation caused by the fact that members of the university believed they were a law unto themselves. ‘Academic ability isn’t everything, Sidney,’ he pronounced, ‘especially when it comes to crime. You have to know what makes people tick. You have to understand the human character. You can’t just get all the answers out of books. That’s why you and I get on with each other.’
‘I agree, although you do need intelligence as well as intuition.’
‘Then there are different kinds of “intelligence”, aren’t there? The public and the private . . .’
‘The stated and the concealed.’
Such was Inspector Keating’s impatience that he was not going to wait to hear Sidney’s ideas but pressed on with his own. ‘We need to establish the truth about Valentine Lyall. Who was he and what were they all doing on the roof in the first place? Was this a relatively innocent escapade or did one or more of them have sinister motives? Did Lyall fall or did Bartlett push him? If he was pushed, was he deliberately lured on to the roof in order to meet his doom? If so, then for what purpose? And why this method?’
‘To make it look like an accident.’
‘There are simpler ways of killing a man. Second, we need to know if Rory Montague saw as little as he says he did and whether he is as innocent as he sounds. Can he remember anything more, and what was his relationship with the two other men? Why is he still here when Bartlett has disappeared? And lastly, why is the Master of your college so keen that I should only talk to you?’
‘He is worried that you will think it might have something to do with espionage.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I do have a few contacts in the Foreign Office and they’ve been warning me about this place for years. Although I don’t always get the information I’m after. They can be quite evasive when they want to be.’
‘I imagine that’s their job. But it’s always hard to know what’s going on and how much people know,’ Sidney continued. ‘I’m not a great believer in conspiracy theories myself. People at this university are generally too consumed by their own ideas. You cannot underestimate the limited preoccupations of the intellectual. But whether this is, or is not, an accident, it’s certainly unusual for three men to be on a roof together and for one to die and another to disappear from the face of the earth. I also share your doubts about Rory Montague. I think he’s hiding something.’
‘We need to go through their movements as accurately as we can; and that, unfortunately, means getting on to the roof ourselves.’
‘I imagined you might say that,’ Sidney replied warily. ‘I presume we can forgo the use of climbing ropes. There is a perfectly good interior staircase.’
‘And I assume you know how to get to it.’
‘My friend, the precentor, will supply us with a key.’
‘You have friends in high places.’
‘And some low ones too,’ Sidney replied, finishing his pint. He told himself firmly that he should not have another.
‘You had better not tell me about them. Have you got time to do all this, Sidney? In the past you have always been very quick to remind me about your duties. I assume you have other things to do?’
Sidney looked down at his depressingly empty pint glass and hesitated. It was a busy time for visiting the sick (Mrs Maguire’s mother could not have much longer to live) and Leonard had requested guidance before taking the first of his Lenten confirmation classes. T
here was also the ‘annual inspection of the fabric’ to worry about. This was always testing in wintertime when the church roof was prone to leak and the current weight of snow had already made the situation precarious. Furthermore, Sidney’s friend Amanda Kendall had telephoned only that morning and threatened to pay an imminent visit to Grantchester in order to ‘hear all about the German escapade’, and this would take up at least half a day of his time. There was too much going on already.
‘Well, Sidney?’ Keating asked.
‘I think most things can wait,’ his friend replied uncertainly.
The two men arranged to meet at St Andrew’s Street police station the following morning. Before going to King’s, Keating asked if they could make a small detour through the college. He wanted to have a look at Kit Bartlett’s rooms.
For a moment, as they walked down Petty Cury, Sidney had the feeling that they were being followed. A man in a dark raincoat and trilby, whom he thought he had seen on the way to the Eagle the night before, appeared twice behind them and was in no hurry either to overtake or head off in a different direction. It was unsettling, but Sidney did not want to point this out to his friend for fear of seeming over-anxious.
Kit Bartlett’s set of rooms was on the second floor of a staircase in Old Court itself. The outer room consisted of the furniture the college had provided: a couple of armchairs, a desk, chair and card-table. The single bed had been made up, the curtains were drawn and there was nothing personal that could suggest his presence.
‘What was he studying?’ Inspector Keating asked.
‘Medicine. Although I think he was specialising in radiology. Lyall was one of the great experts in the subject. Bartlett won’t be short of job opportunities either here or abroad.’
‘Why do you say abroad?’
‘I was just thinking where he might have got to . . .’ Sidney wondered if it was too far-fetched to think of Moscow.
‘We have no evidence that he has left the country.’
‘And none that he is still here. Why would a man disappear so suddenly if innocent of any crime? What could his motivation be for killing Valentine Lyall, if kill him he did?’